


First and Last

by theshadowsneak



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Arguing, Falling In Love, First Time, Fluff, M/M, Pre-Canon, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-01
Updated: 2013-02-03
Packaged: 2017-11-27 21:11:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/666527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theshadowsneak/pseuds/theshadowsneak
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras kisses like the best vodka, surprising and powerful and incredibly intoxicating. My first and my last.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In the beginning

**Author's Note:**

> Something a little lighter...Enjolras and Grantaire are so sweet together in the musical, and their deaths is one of the most touching and best choreographed scenes in the film. Vive l'amour!

The first time Grantaire enters the cafe, it's more out of curious spite than anything else.

He's heard of the meetings they hold there, the idealistic fools, calling themselves the Friends of the ABC. They spend their time - whatever time that can be spared after their drinking, shouting, boasting and pointless talk about poems and romance and girls - discussing plans for revolution. A futile, foolish revolution that is doomed to failure. A group of young men - no, boys - cannot hope to oppose the forces of monarchy and absolute authority; if they are not discovered and arrested soon, they will all be corpses when they try to launch their rebellion. A newborn kitten would have more sense.

But Grantaire believes that if you want to scorn something, you should have at least a good idea of what you wish to scorn. So he goes, one evening, and finds the cafe alive with noise, drink, and good humour.

Quietly, he slides into a seat in a corner, accepts a drink pressed warmly into his hand by a less-than-sober student, and waits patiently, hoping not to draw attention to himself. Just as he had imagined, they are raucous, unruly, and far from the romantic ideal of intense, organised, dedicated revolutionaries.

After a while, a young man in a red coat leaps onto one of the tables and calls, "My friends! Inasmuch that we may enjoy ourselves, we must not lose sight of our ultimate goal."

It's a wonder that anyone can hear him over the shouting, but they do, and everyone quietens down a little. Grantaire, sipping his drink, briefly permits himself the luxury of feeling mildly impressed.

The man continues, speaking about the need for unity, reminding his audience of the ideals they hold (or are meant to hold), before launching into a list of equipment they will need, and - waving a scroll of rolled-up papers in one hand - the plans that are to be made.

Grantaire listens intently - only because there's so much ammunition here to be had, and not out of genuine interest as everyone else. He waits until the man in the red coat gets down from the table, before remarking with a smirk, "You truly think that'll work? And how many more decades will you need?"

The speed with which everyone's attention turns to him is surprising, even to himself. Those who aren't squinting in confusion through a drunken stupor are glaring, angered that someone would dare desecrate their sacred meeting - the blasphemy!

Their gazes needle Grantaire a little, seeming to remind him not to go to far, though he doesn't let his nonchalant appearance slip. He averts his eyes from the staring, focussing on his drink instead, wondering if they'll take it as a gesture of arrogance, or cowardice.

Some begin muttering, not quite under their breaths, until the fellow with the red coat raises a hand and says, "We do - and hopefully it'll shall succeed within a few months. With our strength and commitment, we do not believe our efforts will be in vain - "

Then he gets up, and strides over to Grantaire's table, seating himself right opposite, and continues, "But, my friend, I do not see what cause you have to be so cynical."

Grantaire tries hard to hide his smile. "Cynical? I am merely being realistic."

He notes the ghost of a grin playing on the lips of the other. "I beg to differ," he says, and they end up arguing until dawn breaks and they nearly have to be physically dragged out of the cafe.

Grantaire has to endure a day of boring classes - most of which he does not, and cannot pay proper attention to anyway - with a pounding head and heavy eyelids. He doesn't regret it, however - after so long of forcing his way through stuffy lessons, dogmatic teachings and the dismal world, for once, he feels a little alive.

 

***

 

The next night he's back again. He doesn't interrupt the meeting, this time, but waits until the man in the red coat - Enjolras - finishes with his eloquent but inevitably pointless speech, and discussing with the lot of too-young, too-impulsive boys. He's staring into his glass and doesn't notice immediately when Enjolras appears before him, with a look of something akin to amused anticipation on his face.

Grantaire lets his eyes dart away for a moment in a mix of confusion and discomfort - why would Enjolras anticipate his presence? Why smile? Why act like this is like meeting a good friend one hasn't seen in years, rather than a challenge to one's basic beliefs?

But he neither protests or questions the young man; they don't even really greet each other, as if they are so familiar - or so antagonistic - that greetings are superfluous.

Again, they debate until morning, and Grantaire decides to nod off during class instead. He isn't too worried about the consequences, and besides, somehow, wrangling with a stubborn idealist all night seems infinitely preferable to listening to the repetitive words of his elders and superiors.

 

***

 

The visits become something of a regular occurrence. Grantaire doesn't like to admit it, but he actually looks forward to it - he spends each and every day, if not nodding off in exhaustion, thinking about arguing with Enjolras. Or perhaps just thinking about Enjolras. It's gone from fiercely defending his own ideas and attacking the others, to a sort of back-and-forth banter that borderlines on friendly. Though it is most assuredly _not_ friendly, Grantaire reminds himself. He started off ridiculing the Friends of the ABC's daft aspirations, didn't he? He can't ever end up agreeing with them - and he won't, he stresses firmly - no matter how charismatic or admirable Enjolras might be. After all, it isn't, and shouldn't be about Enjolras, should it?

Tonight's no different - the meeting's proceeded as usual, and it appears that Grantaire has more or less become part of the group, sitting at the central table, even though he doesn't agree with almost everything they say (what he agrees with, for sure, is only that they ought to have another shot of whatever-drink-the-owners-think-to-serve-that-night).

It's quiet now, as most of the Friends are both figuratively and literally in their cups. Only Grantaire and Enjolras - close to a teetotaller, and still sipping his drink carefully, and perhaps even thoughtfully - are still somewhat conscious, and Grantaire suspects he might need to call it a day.

"Not up for it tonight?" Enjolras teases, noticing Grantaire beginning to rest his chin on the table.

Grantaire's head snaps up instantly, "As if I wouldn't be! Or are you just afraid that you shan't be able to hold your ground?"

"Of course not," comes the reply, along with the small but amazingly attractive lopsided smile that Grantaire realizes he rather enjoys provoking. Their eyes lock together, and Grantaire can't - doesn't want to look away. And then he finds himself surging forward and pressing his lips to Enjolras'.

But then he draws back immediately, embarrassed and terrified. What would Enjolras think of him now? He can't have - he can't possible have just kissed Enjolras. Suddenly studying the table becomes his first priority.

Yet Enjolras places his fingers beneath Grantaire's chin and pulls him to face him. "First time?"

Grantaire doesn't dare look at him directly. His only answer is to blush, and then try to hide it.

Enjolras doesn't seem the least offended or perturbed. Instead, he leans forward and whispers into Grantaire's ear, so close that he can't help but shiver, "I'll show you how to do it properly."

Enjolras kisses like the best vodka, surprising and powerful and incredibly intoxicating. He manages to sneaks his tongue past Grantaire's lips, and daringly explores his mouth without a trace of reserve, the same way Enjolras is about his principles. He pulls Grantaire closer, fairly into his lap, and starts cards his fingers through Grantaire's hair - the last of which makes Grantaire feels as though he is completely boneless and helpless, that he can't do anything beyond moan into Enjolras' mouth and grip onto his shoulders.

One of the drunk fellows at the table - Prouvaire, the hopeless romantic - begins to stir, and Enjolras breaks the kiss with a smirk. "Let's take this somewhere a little quieter, shall we?"

Grantaire barely manages to nod, knowing that his face is burning, and that soon every single fibre of his body will be consumed in fire. He likes to think of himself as being well-versed in the ways of this world - none of which he thinks all too highly of - but only know does he understand how inexperienced he is. His legs are shaking so much that Enjolras has to help him up the stairs.

They find an empty room and their lips connect almost immediately once they're inside. Somehow it's possible for them to strip and stumble towards the bed without interrupting the kiss, and it's not long before Grantaire discovers that he's wrapped his legs around Enjolras' waist and they are frantically rubbing against each other.

When Enjolras takes him, it's in the most gentle and wonderful way possible. Only two fingers, and he has Grantaire falling apart and mewling brokenly like a kitten beneath him; just a crook and twists of his fingers, and he can make the cynical youth curse and arch right off the sheets. When he finally - finally, Grantaire feels that he has been waiting for this for years, for centuries, _forever_ , and he'll snap if Enjolras doesn't fuck him right now - pushes in, Grantaire thinks that he will evaporate right now, that it's not possible for him to be enjoying this miracle etched in searing flames.

It doesn't matter how long they're at it - whether it only takes two or three thrusts to make Grantaire come, and come _hard_ \- because this moment will be forever imprinted into his mind, preserved, treasured, loved, almost as much as he realises he loves Enjolras.

 

***

 

The next morning he wakes to find Enjolras hovering over him, watching him closely. Grantaire doesn't avert his eyes. There are a million emotions, a million thoughts bubbling in his chest - the surprise and chagrin and delight and desire, what last night meant to him, what it meant to Enjolras, what would happen now - threatening to overflow him, but instead he pulls Enjolras down and kisses him. He can't ignore the lingering sense of disappointment and loss when he realises that he must pull away.

He feels Enjolras smile into his mouth. "See you tonight," he whispers into Grantaire's ear before watching him leave, with infinite warmth and joy running through his veins.


	2. At the end

The planned date of the revolution approaches with alarming alacrity, and so do Grantaire's fears.

He's neither deluded nor optimistic enough to believe that they will be blessed with a clean victory. The soldiers of Paris will never be so incompetent, the people of Paris will never be so completely devoted, and they will never be so lucky. Even Enjolras is forced to admit that there may be casualties, and they must be prepared to give their lives for the revolution.

 _Ah, but **whose** lives?_ Grantaire thinks.

No one has much time left for enjoyment anymore. The days are spent rallying the crowds, shouting over the noise to drum up support (support which, Grantaire wonders, may not be so easily gained if General Lamarque isn't dying), and hopefully finding enough brave (or mad) souls willing to stand up to the army when necessary. The nights include poring over maps, checking the inventory of weapons of explosives over and over again, and drinking to try to keep each other's spirits up. Sleepless nights can no longer be afforded. They barely even get the opportunity to touch - even though Grantaire has more or less dropped out of his classes and now follows Enjolras around on his daily rallying, speech-making and general insanity, and their evenings pass with them drinking together, they are almost never alone. There are always eyes watching them, reputations for them to keep.

 _How ironic,_ Grantaire contemplates bitterly, _that in this country if you suggest treason and call for uprisings people will cheer you on with screams of joy, but if you kiss a fellow man there will be no shortage of people shrinking away from you in disgust._

Enjolras is devoting most, if not all, his strength to the revolution and the Friends of the ABC. After a long day's work he goes around thanking and encouraging each and every fellow in the cafe, clapping them on the shoulder, or commending them for their efforts. Grantaire doesn't know how he ought to feel - intoxicated in love and admiration, resentful in being pushed to being Enjolras' second - or, let's face, eighteenth or nineteenth - priority, or jealous at the attention, smiles and whispers awarded to the other hopeful revolutionaries. He especially can't understand why Enjolras worries so much about Marius, who's not even an actual member of the Friends. The boy teeters between approval and support, and obsessing over some girl he met - how does that qualify him to take up so much of Enjolras' time?

Grantaire sometimes half-heartedly chastises himself for being jealous, and sometimes thinks that he ought to be jealous. No one else is here just because of Enjolras while not believing in the revolution; no one else loves Enjolras like he does. Why shouldn't he be jealous?

They don't even really argue anymore. Whenever Grantaire suggests a contrary opinion, Enjolras just smiles resignedly and shakes his head, "What more can I say?" It's said good-naturedly, but to Grantaire it is no different from being told to sod off and die.

 

***

 

"Tomorrow." The damning word lies on the tip of his tongue like a burning brand. Lamarque's funeral will be tomorrow. The revolution will go ahead tomorrow. In all likelihood, they will be bloody corpses by tomorrow.

Grantaire grips his glasses as tightly as possible, wondering if it will crack. The other Friends are rousing themselves with dreams of success and glory, of how the revolution shall bring both France and themselves to life, of the joy and recognition they will be basking in as they liberate the people of Paris from tyranny and hardship. Nothing but delusions - what are their chances of carrying their fight through? How long can they possibly last? Will he and Enjolras survive uninjured? Can the barricade be set up in time? Wil they...

But of course no one is interested in his concerns. They're far too busy dreaming and drinking and chatting and singing as he broods and tries to stop his fingers from shaking. Enjolras shoots him a grin, but even that doesn't improve his mood much.

Later, when they retire to an upstairs room, Grantaire still cannot lighten up, and feels even more guilty for it - somehow, he feels that he should be sharing the enthusiastic, fearless spirit, despite the fact that he doesn't agree with it - even if it's only for Enjolras. At one moment, he even thinks that he is being infected by the optimism.

But strangely enough, Enjolras suddenly seems lose spirit. He flops down onto the bed and asks, completely out of the blue, "What do you think'll happen tomorrow?"

Grantaire shrugs. He looks nonchalant, though in reality he doesn't know how to answer. The question just seems so - out of character. Enjolras doesn't fret. He doesn't consider failure. He's never unsettled about anything.

But when he looks into Enjolras' eyes, he sees youth, uncertainty and fear of loss. Enjolras sighs and pulls him to lie on top of him, wrapping his arms around Grantaire's back and burying his face into Grantaire's shoulder. For a moment, Grantaire thinks he understands - under the facade, Enjolras has his own private concerns, and like everyone else, fears the consequences if the revolution goes awry.

"Don't worry, I know how it feels," he says, running his fingers through Enjolras' hair. "Sometimes we're all afraid to fail, afraid to die."

Yet Enjolras jerks away from him, eyes flashing. "What do you know?" he snaps unexpectedly, and Grantaire's both scared and confused as to where's he's gone wrong.

Enjolras kisses Grantaire passionately, the first time in quite a while, sending sparks and thrills through him, though the force and seeming roughness surprises him. Enjolras soon has him on his back, and is stripping off his clothes with near-desperate speed, as though Grantaire's being dressed for one moment longer is sacrilege.

He enters Grantaire without warning, with a peculiar forcefulness that puzzles Grantaire as much as it hurts him. He's never wanted to anger Enjolras, not for real, even when wrangling endlessly with him, and understands even less how it's come to this - unexplained rough fucking that drives more pain to his heart than his body.

Eventually he can't help but cry, "Please - Enjolras - please - stop - "

Enjolras freezes. His former look of annoyance and ire melts, to be replaced by an expression that could not be more horrified or apologetic. "I'm sorry - I'm sorry," he mutters, pulling out and curling up with his back to Grantaire, covering his face with his hands.

"Enjolras - " Grantaire whispers uncertainly. "Enjolras, please talk to me - "

When he gently pulls Enjolras' fingers away, he sees the tears.

"I'm sorry, Grantaire, I'm so sorry," Enjolras tells him, shaking his head. "I just can't - can't bear the thought - I can't lose you." He takes a deep shuddering breath and lifts his trembling fingers to brush Grantaire's cheek. "I'm sorry. I didn't intend to hurt. Are you - well, you'd better get your rest. Tomorrow - we can't afford to be worn out."

He tries to rise, but Grantaire grips his forearm. "Enjolras," he says, aware of the heaviness in his chest. "I don't want to lose you either. But we'll take tomorrow, and each day after that as they come. As long as - as you're with me."

The smile finally reappears on Enjolras' lips, and sighs when Grantaire kisses him. Grantaire suddenly feels ashamed - all this while he's been bitter and jealous and sarcastic and spiteful, not once helping with Enjolras' cause or his needs. How can he have been so selfish? He wants to excuse it as being an inherent part of his nature, but he can't. It won't be fair to Enjolras - Enjolras, who, in spite of everything, still loves him.

They fall asleep in each others' arms, and the last thing Grantaire remembers is Enjolras whispering teasingly, "Who'd have thought, you'd finally be optimistic for once."

 

***

 

One night fraught with tension, and then the massacre comes in the morning.

Grantaire dashes up the stairs, breathing hard, and sees it all: the soldiers crowding around in a circle, their rifles all lowered and aimed at one target, and that target being Enjolras. _Please God, please no, not now, not yet -_

Without hesitating, he pushes past the circle to stand in front of the baffled National Guard. He turns to see Enjolras smiling at him, as he takes his hand and twine their fingers together.

It doesn't matter what will happen next. Paradise, Purgatory or Hell, they will always be together.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not entirely sure if vodka was common in nineteenth-century France, but apparently it had already turned up in parts of Western Europe a century ago, so I'm going to assume that Grantaire's tried it before.


End file.
